


protect my legacy

by blithelybonny



Series: call me son (one more time) [11]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Erectile Dysfunction, I Have Run Out of Ways to Tag the Hopelessness of Their Situation, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Multi, Or Is It Hopeless?, Power Imbalance, Relationship Issues, Who are you Kenny?, what do you want?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 06:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16487816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: Bob goes to Vegas as his boys race through the playoffs.





	protect my legacy

**Author's Note:**

> Title, as always, from Hamilton, and love, as always, to the #hellsquad for always being there. <3

Meredith has been married before too. She has two sons, and neither of them has any interest in sports.

It’s fine for now. It’s fine for having someone on his arm at events and someone in his bed while Kent and Jack blaze towards the playoffs on either side of the country. She has dark red hair and deep brown eyes, and her smile is crooked, and she’s beautiful and a safe choice—and Bob feels nothing, except when she’s bent over, face in the pillow, and he’s fucking into the tight, wet heat of her.

After he comes, he pulls out and has to quickly catch the slipping condom, swallowing a curse rather than having to speak to her. He ties it off and pads to the bathroom to toss it in the trash. When he returns to the bedroom, Meredith’s on her back with a hand at her cunt, finishing herself off with her eyes squeezed shut and making these noises, little clicks like her mouth is dry and she’s swallowing her own pleasure because she’s used to keeping quiet.

Bob thinks about closets. He thinks about what people think they have to put away, thinks about what parts people always want to shove somewhere no one else can see unless they’re invited to look.

(Here’s the hall and through here is the bedroom and this is the linen closet, nothing all that interesting in there, except for the skeletons.)

“ _Tu veux que je_ —”

“No, shh!” she cuts him off and speeds up her hand, and Bob thinks he should have just done it before he got up. He thinks that he never would have left Kent before he got off, never would have left Alicia either, and he can’t fucking remember the last time he wasn’t selfish.

She comes a moment later with a long, slow exhale and seems to sink a little more into the bed. She might as well not even be there. He might as well not even be there.

“ _Pense qu’il y a plus de vin_ ,” he offers, even though he just wants her to leave.

Meredith chuckles a little as she sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed. “ _N’as tu pas assez_?” she asks, extending her hands to him so he can help her to her feet.

“Yeah,” he replies. The momentum carries her too far, and she smacks into his chest. Bob wraps her in a hug, and presses his lips to the top her head. She’s sweat-slickened and smells like sex, and Bob’s loneliness is a hole shaped like Alicia—small and blonde and heavy with the burden of him, except that she never made him feel burdensome. He ruined her, didn’t he? He ruined her, and he deserves to feel this way.

After a moment, Meredith squirms out of his grip and picks up her dress and heels, and after a minute, she’s kissing him firmly and seeing herself out the door. He’ll pick her up for dinner tomorrow at around 7:00, and they’ll do it all over again.

Except that when he checks his phone, he finds a text from Kent that says **i think i should quit. what if i just quit?**

Bob books a flight to Vegas for the following morning.

\-- --

It’s on the tip of his tongue just to ask Kent if people know. Does anyone besides the family know about them? But the thought of actually asking, of confirming that the quizzical look on Skripchenko’s face is because he knows that the reason Kent is skipping optional skate is that he spent most of the morning being fucked in the shower, makes his gut clench and his throat tighten.

He grabs a water bottle from the cart—wishes it was something much stronger—and takes a seat at the table next to Kent, where Kent’s reviewing game tape and scouting reports.

“Hey,” Kent greets, not lifting his eyes from his task.

“Kenny, I—”

“—later,” Kent interrupts. The video loops back and replays a beaut of a tricky goal, and Kent’s eyes don’t stray from the screen. “You know you could have just stayed home.”

Bob knows what he means, but says, “Your apartment is boring without you,” and hopes it sounds charming and romantic instead of painfully needy.

Kent’s lip curls up in a smile for a second before it settles into a flat line again as his eyes track the Schooner defenseman who gave him trouble in their last game. “I’m sure the guys’d shit if you suited up with them,” he says, as he scribbles something unintelligible on his notepad.

Bob sighs gently. “You really want me to go?”

“No,” Kent replies after a long moment of just watching the screen. He pauses the video finally and turns to Bob. “No, I—it’s nice that you…” He trails off for long enough that Bob thinks he’s probably not going to finish that thought, and then he lifts his hand and drags his knuckles gently over the back of Bob’s hand, lightning-quick so nobody can see, before unpausing the video and getting back to work.

Bob waits a few moments before he puts his hand on the back of Kent’s neck and squeezes gently. Kent tenses, but when Bob goes to move his hand, Kent makes a small entreating noise. “You’ll have to make up your mind, son,” Bob says, trying for a joke.

“Yeah, I know,” Kent answers, soft, but decisive.

\-- --

Bob’s got a hand resting atop Kent’s head as Kent sucks him, sifting his fingers gently through Kent’s hair. If he keeps it soft and easy like this, maybe Kent won’t notice too soon that Bob’s having a difficult time staying hard. It’s not Kent’s fault—Kent’s always been so perfect at this, always brilliant with his mouth. When the Aces finished blowing out Arizona 8-1 to mathematically clinch their playoff spot, all Kent had wanted to do was go home and get on his knees, but Bob has been drunk since halfway through the second intermission, and it’s just—not happening.

“You tired, Daddy?” Kent asks softly, pulling off Bob’s dick with a lurid popping noise. He picks up the task with a loose fist and stares up into Bob’s eyes, smirk soft with fondness that Bob knows he doesn’t deserve. “I’m the one that played, like, 20 minutes of high-quality hockey today.”

_When did you grow up?_ Bob thinks. He slides his hand down to draw his thumb over the little laugh-lines at the corners of Kent’s eyes, lower then gently to trace a blossoming bruise at his jaw from a stupid high-sticking when the Yotes had gotten desperate, and finally lower still to poke at the smirk until it smooths out into a real smile. He doesn’t apologize.

Kent sighs gently, keeps working Bob over with his hand. “You wanna take me to bed?” he asks after another several long moments.

“I love you,” Bob says.

Kent’s hand stills. His eyes are slate-colored with only the soft, half-light of the TV across the room playing Aces highlights to illuminate them. He looks young again, on his knees, asking for something that Bob isn’t sure he should give him.

“You don’t have to—” he says, after Kent’s mouth has dropped open, but nothing has come out, only for Kent to interrupt him with, “—do you?”

“You know I do, baby,” Bob assures him, tracing over his bottom lip, spit-slickened and swollen from work.

Kent closes his lips around Bob’s thumb, lets it rest on his tongue for a moment before he sucks it once and lets it go. Bob withdraws it from Kent’s mouth, and Kent whispers, “Do I?”

Bob thinks of all the things he’s lost—and what he’s gained. “I wish you did.”

The sound that tears itself from Kent’s throat isn’t a sob, not exactly—Bob knows what Kent’s sobs sound like—but it’s no less wrenching, no less full of something that feels like blame and it jams its way into Bob’s chest and burrows beneath his ribs.

“It’s okay, son,” Bob says, returning his hand to Kent’s hair and stroking it again. “You’re okay.”

“Don’t call me—” Kent cuts himself off, looks away, then drops his head forward to rest on Bob’s bare thigh. When he murmurs it again into Bob’s skin, Bob can pretend that he just didn’t hear.

\-- --

“How’s Meredith?” Kent asks, staring at Bob in the mirror behind him, as he does up his Aces-red tie.

It’s a jab, Bob knows, hears it in the way Kent sounds out every syllable of her name. “How’s my son?” he snipes back—because Kent’s jabs still land, even now. Kent knows where the bruises are the tenderest.

Kent turns around slowly, rakes his gaze up and down the entire length of Bob’s body, and then smiles, sharp and mean. “Haven’t heard any complaints,” he says, before he bites down on his lower lip, plays coy as his gaze lingers on Bob’s half-tented boxer shorts.

“No,” Bob says, as he gets off the bed and crosses the room to Kent, “I don’t suppose you would. Jack saves his complaints for the people he cares about.”

“Fuck you,” Kent spits, even as he drops to his knees and pulls Bob’s cock out through the hole in his shorts.

Bob lets Kent nuzzle up to him for a few moments before he grips Kent by the chin and pulls him up to standing again. “You have a flight to catch,” he says, in a low voice.

Kent’s eyes are half-lidded and his mouth is open just a bit. He licks his lips and then, like the flip of a switch, he chomps his teeth together and grins again. “I’m gonna quit,” he whispers.

“Sure you are,” Bob answers.

“I am.” Kent blinks twice; his pupils are dilated, and Bob can feel the hard length of him against his own soft cock. It twitches a little, and he grins. “I am, you watch me.”

Bob bends forward and presses his lips to Kent’s forehead. “We’ll see,” he says, into Kent’s skin.

Kent shivers in his grip, and Bob grinds their hips together, feeling—finally—his dick start to chub up. “Daddy,” Kent whimpers.

Bob thrusts up against Kent once more, then, holding him in place, he bends and whispers into Kent’s ear, “Go catch your flight. Make me proud, son.”

Squirming a little in Bob’s grip, Kent exhales sharply through his nose and then dips forward until his forehead is braced against Bob’s chest. “Okay,” he answers. “Okay, I will.”

\-- --

The Aces sweep the Kings and take the Sharks to five, but then have to erase a brutal 3-0 debt with four cutthroat, filthy wins, and Bob watches the way that Kent, despite his obvious exhaustion, lights up in every post-game presser. It’s almost painful, like staring into an eclipse—beautiful, but insidious—the way he grins and praises his team and bounces around and throws his arms around Troy’s neck or Skripchenko’s waist. He seems so certain that this is the Aces’ year.

Kent deserves a third cup. He deserves a fourth and a fifth, even. He’s good enough. He’s always been good enough.

On the other side, the Penguins take the Falconers through a seven game slog, and Jack manages to pull out a beaut of a one-timer to win it, only to have the team drop four straight miserable games to Washington.

Jack finally answers the phone.

Bob doesn’t bother with French. “You did so well, Jack,” he says.

“Are you still in Las Vegas,” Jack asks, but it feels like a statement.

The sheets still smell like sex from the night before.

He hears the front door open, and the thump of Kent dumping his gear bag on the hardwood. Hears him quietly calling out for Kit. She’s on the bed with Bob though, curled up on Kent’s pillow and looking at something only she can see in the doorway. Bob reaches over to give her a pat, and she tilts up a little into his hand. He’s always been more of a dog person, but he likes Kit. She likes him too, usually.

“You could come out here too,” Bob offers.

Jack laughs softly in Bob’s ear. “I’ve already been.”

Bob thinks that he could probably leave the call connected when he kisses Kent hello. He thinks that Jack would listen.

He thinks that there’s something really fucking wrong with him.

Kent appears in the doorway, and he’s smiling still, eyes half-closed, ready to sleep, ready to curl up and not move for the brief five days they have before Game One of the SCF, but still, _still_ smiling.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Bob says.

Both of them say thank you, but only one of them means it.

Kent strips down to his boxers and climbs in bed. He buries his face in the sheets, inhales, wrinkles his nose a little, but just laughs. “You’re such a perv,” he mutters, as he scoots close enough to press his nose to Bob’s stomach instead.

Bob cradles Kent’s head in his hand, and within moments, he’s out, breath warm against Bob’s skin.

“ _Au revoir, Papa_ ,” Jack says and ends the call.

\-- --

Meredith and her friend are laughing about something as they wait for the drinks Bob ordered them, and Bob’s standing with a hand resting on her lower back, gently tracing his thumb back and forth. The fabric keeps catching on his skin.

“Oh!” the friend—Bob thinks her name is Lucy—cries out, pointing at one of the televisions above the bar. “ _N'est-ce pas votre garçon_?”

Kent looks good. His Cup ring keeps catching the light from the cameras, and he’s wearing a suit Alicia must’ve chosen for him. There’s a smirk on his face that Bob’s seen before—the one that doesn’t reveal a thing—and he thinks Kent’s eyes look blue today.

“Yes,” Bob answers, as Kent leans forward to speak into the microphone. “He’s mine.”


End file.
